


Cannonball

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, The Cas Spinoff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>(Part 1 of The Cas Spinoff)</b> Fantasy spinoff, taking place after 8.17, where Castiel lives a life (almost) separate from the Winchesters (with bonus Benny). Implied Dean/Cas, spoilers for 8.17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

“ _Castiel_?”

Castiel squinted as a shadow fell over him; the voice saying his name did so slowly, syllables long and drawn out, a joke around their edges.

He was in the process of learning that bars, whilst a popular Winchester haunt, weren’t suited to his taste. He’d left the dive almost immediately after arriving, rankled by the blurry slurs of the patrons, their melancholy – had dragged himself out the door, weary, the tablet in a cloth bag, swinging against his side. With no need to sleep he could walk for hours on end, technically, but as much as he hated to admit it, sometimes rest was a preferable option.

He found the little diner some ways off the highway, and its dim, comforting lights pulled him in. Something about the place reminded him of simpler times; perhaps of the light, soft and waxy, that lit Robert Singer’s house; he pushed his way through the door and found himself a booth, as quietly and inconspicuously as he could.

He was greeted by a waitress almost immediately; the place wasn’t busy. At this slim hour on a Sunday there were only a few scattered diners; a man in the corner, fairly aged, reading a newspaper – a young woman and a child, crushed together in a booth, and whispering. Castiel let his gaze slip over them for a calculated amount of time; he was careful to seem detached, uninterested, even as he grew curious of how they, like him, had come to be here.

“That really you?”

Halfway through a lukewarm cup of coffee (which Castiel had ordered out of principle, not taste), the air at the table changed, and a voice sounded out above him that he never thought he’d hear again. He raised his head. “Hello, Benny.” He replied tiredly, and the vampire – still large, now cleaner, in a white cotton shirt – laughed, and slid into the booth opposite Castiel without asking permission. He set his hands on the table, their wide palms folded against one another, and Castiel tried to meet his gaze, worry creeping up the back of his neck. 

“What brings you here, then, huh, tweety?”

Castiel frowned. “I’m –“ he looked briefly out the window. “Travelling.” He said, truthfully, and Benny raised a brow.

“I guessed you were.” He looked Castiel over, considering. “This what you look like when you’re all juiced up, then, huh?”

“I was in a weakened state when you last saw me.”

“Knew that, too. Didn’t think you’d get out, though.” Benny smiled amiably at him. “Welcome back to the surface, wings. Guessin’ Dean jailbroke you?”

Castiel shook his head.  Benny’s eyebrow ratcheted higher.

“Who beat him to it? Boys back home?” he asked, genuinely interested; Castiel closed his eyes briefly, and took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee with a grimace.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Benny shrugged. “Fair enough.” But his expression was still perplexed. He leaned back in his seat. “Hell of a coincidence, this.” He looked at the angel, considering. “You gotta be off soon? Got anywhere to stay?”

Castiel shook his head in answer to both questions, and the vampire grinned easily. “That’s settled, then; stay awhile. Reminisce about the old days.”

He slid his coffee cup away. “Why are you here?” he asked, suddenly, and Benny shrugged again, the movement of his shoulders slow and easy, a gesture Castiel envied his ability to make.

“Cookin’s what I do.” He said, glancing briefly at the counter, and giving the waitress there a short hand signal, which Castiel assumed to mean he wouldn’t be long. “Had to move on a couple of times, but I need the money. You understand.” He looked at Castiel carefully, and cleared his throat. “Heard from Dean?”

“We parted ways recently.” Castiel looked down at his own hands. “What about you?”

“Got dumped.” He grinned, bitterly. “Said he couldn’t see me anymore. Somethin’ to do with his brother, I guess.”

“Ah.” Castiel nodded. They lapsed into silence; Benny’s eyes, trained on him, were unnerving in their intensity. After a couple of still moments, Benny cleared his throat.

“I gotta go.” He said, looking up at the counter, where the waitress was good-naturedly tapping her wrist. He pushed himself out of the booth with both hands, then stood looking down at the angel. “Don’t disappear on me, hot wings. I know that’s your thing, but hang tight, alright?”

Castiel nodded. He folded his hands, the coffee now stone cold, and looked out the window after Benny left him, fingers laced together on the table. He watched the sun rise.

…

Castiel waited three hours in peaceable silence. Waiting, he could do; he didn’t need to be amused, didn’t need anyone to entertain him. Occasionally, Benny would come over and ask if he was alright – if he wanted anything – but each time he declined.

When the vampire’s shift was finally over, they walked out of the diner together to Benny’s pickup, Benny’s hands in his pockets, his gait slow and careful. When they reached the car he leant against it, and looked up at the diner as Castiel stood in front of him.

“I gotta be movin’ on, soon.” He said, voice distant. Then he looked at Castiel. “Just guessin’, wings, but somethin’ tells me you’ve got nowhere to be gettin’ to, or you’d be there already.” He cleared his throat. “What say we take up together, huh? You ‘n me. The truck, the road - be like old times, but less messy.” He grinned hopefully. Castiel looked at him.

“Why?”

Benny sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Listen, I don’t know the whole story – you’ll have to tell me sometime – but seems to me you’ve done things you regret.” He paused, but not long enough for Castiel to interject. “Well, same here.” His voice had lost its joviality; he frowned at the ground. “Maybe both of us can right somethin’, if we try.”

Castiel thought of the tablet in the bag at his side; of how important it was that he kept it safe. He thought, also, of the lives he’d destroyed; of the things he’d done, most of which haunted his waking moments. Maybe heaven was closed to him, now, but earth was not. Maybe Benny was right; maybe, little by little, there were things they could do.

Benny frowned at his silence. “No contracts. You can take off any time you want.” He assured him, and Castiel nodded, and stuck out his hand.

“Alright. For now.” He agreed, and Benny grinned, big and wide, as he shook it.

“You won’t regret it.” He said, and let go of the hand he’d shaken to wrap Castiel’s body in a quick, firm hug. Then he pulled away and walked straight to the truck; pulled the driver’s door open and got in, then drummed his fingers on the wheel.

Castiel nodded and clambered in; sat prim in the dusty seat. The entire thing smelt of dirt and oil, but Castiel, to his own surprise, didn’t dislike it. He looked at Benny, whose expression was, as usual, amused.

“Where to, then,  _Cas?”_ He asked, deliberate emphasis on the nickname. Castiel smiled softly.

“Anywhere, I suppose.” He said, looking out the window as Benny reversed the truck out of the parking lot. Benny slapped his hands on the steering wheel.

“Sure.” he revved the engine playfully, and turned on the radio. “We can do that.”


	2. Adder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Part 2 of The Cas Spinoff** Benny and Cas, after not-very-long travelling together, go to New Orleans.

Benny is drunk.

This isn’t something that’s up for debate, despite the vampire’s protests; if he were a foodstuff he’d be pickled, and Castiel irritably tells him as much as they stumble out into the street, the place thick-packed with people in various states of undress. He laughs, and wraps one of his huge hands around Castiel’s shoulder, his arm over his back.

“Cool it, feathers,” Benny murmurs even as he stumbles; he’s lucky Castiel can carry his weight with ease; if Castiel’s strength were proportional to his size, they’d have been trampled to death by now.

Castiel isn’t sure he likes New Orleans.

The only reason why they’re here is that Benny thought he caught wind of a haunting, a hunt – but as time drags on and the only kind of ‘investigation’ they do is visit more and more bars and get the vampire more and more thoroughly incoherent, Castiel is starting to suspect there isn’t a hunt here at all.

The heat is stifling; Castiel has long removed his coat and tie, and his pants are rolled up to his knees, something he’s finding it hard not to feel self-conscious about (Benny laughed. He’s not above a degree of sulking). Around his neck, thanks to the vampire’s sense of humour, are strings and strings and strings of multi-coloured beads, and every time Benny sees a new opportunity to acquire some, he drags Castiel through the heaving, shifting crowds to grab them, before slinging them over Castiel’s head. By his estimation (and his estimations are usually accurate, even sweating and ridiculously dressed), there are about twenty-five necklaces around his throat so far, and the number is climbing.

There is no peace anywhere. This is  _humanity_ as his brothers and sisters understood it, he thinks; a heaving, writhing mass of laughing, shrieking bodies, drunken and listing towards him; some partially naked, some singing, some grabbing at him as he pushes through. He’s a target in this crowd, sticking out like a sore thumb in his dress shirt and sensible pants, not to mention the black, highly-shined shoes. Benny opted for the easiest thing; he shucked his shirt before they arrived and decided to bare his hairy, meaty chest to the world, seemingly more at ease  _without_  his shirt on than with it, but Castiel  - he doesn’t know. It makes no sense to be shy (it’s not  _his_ body, after all) – but still he finds himself wrinkling his nose at the idea of becoming any less clothed than he already is, even though sweat is soaking through the fabric at his lower back, and he’s almost certain he’s starting to smell.

Benny tightens his grip around Castiel’s shoulders and steers him towards the edge of the street, dragging him through the crowd, his face crushed against the sweaty backs and shoulders of strangers, the beads around his neck jostling against his skin. Benny buys him food, despite his protests, as always –  _“I don’t need to eat” “You make me hungry just lookin’ at you, feathers, and I don’t mean it as a compliment” –_ and presses it into his hand, the pastry warm and soft, coating his fingers in sugar from the moment it is forced upon him. Benny sinks his teeth into his immediately – vampirism be damned – and swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, scattering sugar all over himself. He gestures insistently for Castiel to eat up, and the angel takes a tentative (smaller) bite, making a similar mess of himself. The sugar coats his lips, the tips of his fingers; he swipes his hands on his pants when he’s finally got the whole thing in his mouth, and only succeeds in swiping long white fingerprints onto his thighs. He looks down at himself and frowns – Benny catches his eye, laughs sharply at him, and tugs him on.

“Isn’t this hard for you?” Castiel gasps, pulling roughly through yet another throng of tightly-packed people, narrowly evading being run down by a parade float. Benny looks at him, unconcerned by the bustle.

“Hard how?” he says, and the slur in his voice is clear, but Castiel ignores it.

“Considering your –“ Castiel frowns. Tact isn’t his forte. “ _Condition.”_ He says, gesturing to his mouth with a hand. Benny grins.

“I’m  _full.”_ He says, and gestures sloppily to the people around him as he says it. “Full of  _life,_ Castiel.” Castiel knows this is a tirade that comes from the shots of whiskey, because Benny very rarely calls him by his name – even Cas seems too much; the angel ends up being ‘feathers’, ‘wings’, ‘hot wings’ (when Benny’s impressed with him), and ‘captain’ when Castiel is being a pain in the ass (Benny’s words, not his). So far they’ve been on the road together for three and a half weeks, and things are –  _tentative_ , he thinks is the word.

Benny is in his element, here; he knows some of the streets, though the layout has changed since he was last here; he knows how to pull through the parades, how to manage himself even drunk as he is, and though Castiel is definitely in no need of his  _protection,_ he appreciates the effort Benny is making to do it, anyway. Interaction comes easily to the vampire; probably because he used to be human, Castiel reasons. Here, especially, he is loose and free with his affections; he kisses the cheeks of strangers when he gets the opportunity; he slurs drunken compliments to the women with naked breasts, indiscriminate as to whether they are young or old, attractive or (objectively) unattractive; he tips his hat to the food sellers, and simply winks, grinning, at Castiel when the angel suggests –  _gently –_ that he take it a little slower with the drinking.

There’s no hunt here.

Castiel thinks he’ll let it slide, just this once.

Benny tightens his grip on his shoulder. “Float comin’” he murmurs, close to Castiel’s ear, as if it is a secret that the giant structure is advancing on them, resplendent in purple; in green, yellow, and gold. They cross the street again, quickly, and then Benny stills to watch the float go past, the grin on his face wide and almost vapid. He tugs Castiel close to his side, and breathes in deeply, his chest puffing up dramatically, then sinking down again when he exhales. He looks at Castiel. “Heaven.” He says, assuredly, as the dancers on the float toss more multi-coloured beads into the crowd, and Benny lifts the hand that isn’t pressing Castiel into his side to catch them – he manages to get three, and he loops them around Castiel’s neck without hesitation.

The angel could, very easily, refute Benny’s word choice; Heaven, in his experience, is nothing like this rumbling, sweaty  _mass_ of faces, the smell of whiskey and food in the air; music coming from every doorway, every  _person,_ even. Heaven is a calm, clinical airspace; a vacuum in which Castiel has never felt pressed close to, has never felt the visceral tug of physical affection, never felt any love but the one he constructed for his father, for his brothers and sisters – a distant love, based on faith, without the strange scrabbling  _proof_ that is a hand on his shoulder; that is the warmth of arms wrapped around his body.

They talk about Dean, he and Benny. Not often, but often enough that the topic is common between them. Mostly, Benny half-affectionately complains; tells Castiel how he doesn’t miss waiting for Dean to ‘do his business’ in purgatory; how he doesn’t miss his stupid jokes, his self-effacing stories. They talk about him with humour, but it is careful; Castiel doesn’t mention the last time they saw each other – his upturned, terrified face. He doesn’t mention how they lived in purgatory; the three of them squeezed together, claw and tooth and nail dug just as deeply in each other as it was inside the place itself.

He has never spoken to anyone about how it felt to have Dean’s arms around him, and as far as he’s aware, it will stay that way.

He looks up at Benny; at his grinning, excited face. Yes, he is intoxicated, and that can account for at least (Castiel would wager) fifty percent of his current worldliness; but however sweaty and vile his body, however smelly the crowd, the city itself, his own skin; however strange he finds the nuances and details of this place; its nakedness, its sexuality; he can appreciate it, because Benny is so clearly in  _love_.

He sighs heavily, and ducks out from Benny’s grip to peel his shirt from his shoulders. The beads clatter and clang around his neck as he worms the collar of his shirt out from underneath them, and he holds the shirt – familiar, old as his time on the earth, repaired a hundred thousand times – and drops it to the ground in the street, letting it get crumpled and trampled underfoot.

Benny looks at him and grins toothily, and just points to the middle of the float. “Next year you’re gettin’ up there, Dumbo.”

Castiel snorts  - he doesn’t even know if he’ll be  _alive,_ next year – and follows Benny as they are, again, swallowed by the crowd.

By the time they leave, (New Orleans still in full swing, but Benny on the verge of vomiting onto a stranger) Castiel has lost his shirt, his tie, his shoes and his suit coat. He had little else to lose.

He has gained, to be exact; no less than forty-seven strings of beads; a small, plastic figurine of Jesus (Benny didn’t understand his laughter; he couldn’t explain); a chipped tooth; a bag of beignets (Benny insisted; he says he’ll want them in the morning),  a large bottle of whiskey (Benny, when drunk, is apparently an incredibly nimble kleptomaniac; Castiel prefers not to question it), and a small henna tattoo on his lower back (of what, he’s not sure; possibly a rooster).

He hefts Benny into the back of the pickup truck, the vampire murmuring blissed-out, ridiculous words to the sky as he lies on his back in the truckbed, grinning from ear to ear. Castiel is, he realises, slightly drunk as well.

He climbs into the truck bed and sits at Benny’s shoulder; wraps his arms around his legs, the beads around his neck cool, round points of pressure against his chest and stomach. They scatter, trailing over his knees, and as Benny starts to tell him a long, half-mad story from his life before Purgatory, Castiel tilts his head up, and smiles at the endless acres of sky. 


	3. Outtake #1

They sit out in the morning on the porch, Cas and Benny; Castiel, his barefootedness still new, sets his crossed ankles on the banister that rolls around Benny’s one-storey house, and sighs out at the sunrise.

Eventually they’ll have to move on; this stop has been a brief, albeit lovely one, and with the tablet still burning hot at his side, Castiel knows he’ll have to leave this basking contentedness for another day. Benny shifts in his seat and rises from it; glances back at Castiel before he goes into the house. His eyes alight on Castiel’s clothes; the shirt too large, the pants cinched around his hips with a belt. They couldn’t find shoes of Benny’s to fit him – for now he’ll have to keep up his commune-style living, and the next town over they’ll pick something up, Castiel promises him.

He leans back in the seat – Benny laughs at him, slow and gruff, affectionate. “Looks good on you, tweetybird.” He says thoughtfully, as he swings the door open. Castiel looks at him and nods, mouth tipping up in a smile.

“Thankyou.” He says, and then turns back to the shaft of sunlight that has so enraptured him; it warms the bare soles of his feet, and he curls his toes as Benny enters the house, the door swinging shut behind him. Part of him is glad he’ll have to wait for more footwear; is glad there isn’t a place that sells shoes here in this backwoods.

He thinks, for now at least, a little mud between his toes will do him good. 


End file.
